


King of a One Horse Town

by Ekko_The_Extraordinaire



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asshole Church, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, Fist Fights, GW2018, Heavy Drinking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Music, M/M, Mentioned Mandy Milkovich, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnant Mandy Milkovich, Roommates, Self-Inflicted Aversion Therapy, Self-Worth Issues, Street fighting, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 05:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekko_The_Extraordinaire/pseuds/Ekko_The_Extraordinaire
Summary: Mickey Milkovich makes a living by fighting at an underground fight club ran by an ex-reverend. When he meets Ian Gallagher, an up-and-coming realism painter who promises him a future of possibilities and happiness, he must decide if South Side, Chicago—his everything—is worth leaving behind, even if it means parting from family drama and his fearless ego.Loose 'Fight Club' AU.Submitted for Gallavich Week 2018.





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this story to Leelah Alcorn and the Gallavich fandom. I want this story to be for anyone who has ever felt alone, unwanted, or scared. I want this story to be for anyone who has ever had to justify their desires, beg for support, or mask their identity for safety. 
> 
> This story is for the someone who has ever felt they didn't have a place in this world. This story goes the individuals that learned their inner truth. This story goes to those willing and able to share that truth.
> 
> If you have ever felt broken, whether words caused it or not, this story is for you.  
> 

K I N G   o f  a   O N E   H O R S E   T O W N

* * *

first.

* * *

 

It looked like this:

Bright colors, mostly.

Spots of little, unmistakable detail.

A portrait, of a face and a pale body wrapped in the sheets.

His cluttered night stand, their clothes on the floor, the posters on his wall. Or how the light filled the room elegantly through the thin white curtains.

It was warm in tone. Welcoming. A place for the creative type.

A place he grew to love.

The art revealed his _happiness_. It was brushed onto the gesso of the canvas.

 

Underneath all of it, their initials were written next to each other, with a plus-sign between them, closed in by a heart--as if they carved their initials into a big oak tree, like in the movies.

 But, this was more original.

This was more romantic.

This was more _them_.

  
Globs of medium and dried pigments in the paint didn’t hide their love, it somehow protected it.

Their promised-love was blanketed by the colors of the painting. It created an image so powerful and lively, it made him forget that time moves quicker than he wishes.

 

 

When he looked at it, he asked himself, What is a subject without his artist?

He hoped not to respond, A monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my side of the archive! I hope you enjoyed what you read.  
> Cash or Card?  
> "I take Kudos and Comments!"  
> \---  
> TRIVIA:  
> \- This story popped in my brain just months after Leelah Alcorn died by suicide, that's why it's dedicated to her.  
> \- The earliest draft of this fic was in 3.29.15.  
> \- List of working titles for this fic include: Talking is Hard...Speechless...  
> \- But, upon the final stages of planning this fic, I found a song (thank you spotify) that spoke to me and the story--do yourself a solid and listen to Dan Auerbach's 'King of a One Horse Town'--and that's where the title came from. Hooray for crediting artists!


	2. The Rev, Dodger and Levi

K I N G   o f  a   O N E   H O R S E   T O W N

* * *

the rev, dodger and levi.

* * *

 

Three minutes since The Rev had daringly said,  
Go-time, motherfuckers!

That was his tag line, when he expected blood to be shed, ribs to be broken, and bruises to never heal. It was all a harmful game of money to him, and he never lost.

Mickey Milkovich played The Rev’s game.

 

Mickey’s opponent slammed his fist into his nose, then another into his stomach. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he got glimpse of the moonlight as it peaked through the church’s windows—the spire windows, way above them, past the tented roof. They were all busted.

Abstract water stains dripped down the window sills and onto the wall paper that peeled off at its edges.

In the greater space, the pews had been stripped, and any historical elements were removed. It was hardly a church at all, just a box with a fancy roof.

Shadows danced under their feet as light had cast from the rusty pendant lamps that hung from the rotten beams. The building was abandoned as far as the neighborhood was concerned, and no one ever checked up on that side of town.

No one cared.

 

The crowd cheered for one of them to fallout. They were all in a large circle. Men with hats and beards and baggy clothes, and women, less in attendance, just as dressed for the occasion, all mingled with one another. Cash burned holes in their pockets.

Mickey recognized some of them—they came to see him fight a lot. By the tone of the room, they wanted Mickey to win this fight, too, like he won all the others.

Just one problem with that, Mickey was drunk before he showed up that night. Six beers and a few shots. Part of him thought he might have forgot about the fight, but it’s been every other Thursday for the past eight months. He would never forget that kind of schedule.

On Thursdays, if he wasn’t fighting, he was sitting on the side, watching, taking in the stench of the BYOB policy and the murderous passion from the crowd. He wanted to study his potential next matches and there was no better way than being a little undercover.

He knew he wouldn’t get a trophy or anything, but it felt like it, ‘cause he tried so hard, to be so good.

Mickey was never scared of fighting, and when the Rev approached him for “the job,” he didn’t think on it too hard. He wanted better for his life, something only money seemed to be able to do. Maybe he was searching for other stuff too, like respect and purpose, but he needed to be doing _something_.

That’s why Mickey chose to fight. Because he wasn’t scared of all the bull shit, it was just him releasing a little madness and moving on with the day. In some fucked up way, he kind of liked the bruises he took home. Some people didn’t even talk to him, thank god. They all probably thought he was dangerous or somethin’.

The only thing that kind of worried Mickey was that The Rev had followers. Real Westboro-vibes. During the day, these fuckers worshiped god, then at night they couldn’t remember a goddamned thing about humanity. They paid the big bucks to see people fight until they stopped moving, passed the point of tapping out.

Mickey didn’t feel like a star sometimes, he felt more like a target.

 

Mickey’s opponent stood at least three inches taller than him, and his biceps were just as big as his thighs. They called him Dennis the Dodger—he was fast. It was rare that his face got touched at all during a fight because he was good at dodging, like he was one step ahead of you and he always knew where you were aiming next.

Some people probably think Dodger is better than Mickey because of his fast-like skills, but the first time Mickey fought him, Mickey won. He found Dodger’s weak spot early on. Mickey would always remember that Dodger couldn’t dodge if he was on his knees.

But he was fucked the moment that first beer can had touched his lips, such a light-weight. He was on the best liquid-courage-trip of his life.

Dodger kneed him in the chin. Blam! The bottom of Mickey’s jaw chomped up, and Mickey bit his tongue. The crowd gasped and ooo-ed. Mickey uncontrollably growled, ‘cause it hurt, but he smiled as blood dripped from his mouth. He was having fun, as much fun as that beer was revving him up to have.

Then Mickey charged at Dodger, as fast as his drunk muscles would let him, and everything went in slow motion.

Dodger turned his head toward Mickey, a little too late. He raised his fist and swung, but Mickey ducked just in time. They looked at each other as Mickey’s eyes widened. He was shocked at his newly found cat-like reflexes. Was this a drunk thing, he thought. Could he be Dodger 2.0?

Then, Mickey swung back effortlessly and popped Dodger in the face.

It was like they were on even playing fields, now.

Mickey hooked left, and nearly lost his balance. His head went a little woozy but he recovered in the same second. They were on opposite sides of the ring.

Mickey snickered, Come on big boy!

Mickey was cocky, feeling like God himself. So confident, so trashed.

He wanted to use the same move from their first fight. Dodger wouldn’t expect it, and somehow Mickey just knew he could, no, _would_ win. He needed to get Dodger on his knees, then give him a few knock-out-worthy punches to the face.

While the crowd cheered, Mickey said, Hey, Dodger, how many beers you have tonight?  
, just loud enough that only Dodger could hear.

Mickey held up six fingers, bragging. Dodger made lethal eyes at him.

Mickey looked back, his heavy eyes staring at Dodger like he was a lion who’d been treated wrong at the Chicago Zoo. Or maybe he was a tiger who had self-esteem issues and used violence as the solution. Or a bear on ecstasy.

Mickey stepped forward, took a few faux punches to throw Dodger off. He aimlessly kicked next to Dodger, another distraction. He punched toward Dodger’s abdomen, but before he could pull back, Dodger had already caught his wrist.

Dodger pulled Mickey in and turned his body so Mickey’s back was to him. He twisted Mickey's wrist and pulled his limb between his shoulder blades.

A crackling sound escaped as sharp pain climbed Mickey’s forearm. Mickey growled again, more bear like, oh my.

Perhaps it would have felt worse if he didn’t have those beers.

Mickey’s rage bubbled and he threw his head back into Dodger’s nose, then yanked himself free. Instinct kicked in: he kicked Dodger in the ribs. Mickey watched as Dodger winced and bent down slightly, holding his side.

Mickey sped behind him, then kicked the back of his knee.

Dodger was supposed to fall, but he only moved a few inches. 

Mickey kicked again, but, of course, Dodger was too fast. He turned and caught Mickey’s boot. It slammed against the ground. The bottom of his foot and toes tingled. Then Dodger grabbed Mickey’s face, hands on his cheeks, and he slammed Mickey’s face into his knee, right on Mickey’s eye socket.

Agony rushed to his eye; there was no way that wouldn’t fuckin’ bruise, worst than last time even.

Mickey struggled to balance himself. He looked into the crowd, wobbling in place. He wasn’t down, not yet.

He sifted, through the crowd, through his thoughts, through his pain.

They were cheering for him, right? They knew his name, they were putting money on him. They came to see him perform or somethin’, to succeed at somethin’, and no one, not even Dennis the Fuckin’ Dodger, was going to take that from him.

He soaked in the attention and encouragement, then let it fill up his dizzy mind.

He could do it, he could do it, he could do it—

The Rev’s voice filled the room, all booming and vicious-like. Uncaring.

The Rev said, He’s takin’ it like a champ, huh, folks?  
, his accent disturbingly thick, like a true Chicagoan.

Without warning, a fist swung toward him, same spot, same fuckin’ eye.

Then all his weight crashed to the ground. He unwillingly faceplanted the discolored hardwood, and it rattled beneath him. That’s when the crowd roared. At him, he wasn’t sure, his thoughts were louder than they were.

The Rev teased, And he’s down! Haven’t seen a Milkovich on the ground in a long time.

Mickey could hardly breathe.

He rolled on his back.

His lungs wheezed.

He gasped for anything but another fist.

He couldn’t move.

All he could hear was his own heart, pounding to the roaring, thumping power of greed. They chanted things like, Fuckin’ Jesus Christ, fight back already, or, My money’s on you, faggot, so get up, or, Tap Out, Tap Out, Tap Out!—

But there was no tapping out, only passing out. Street fighting was no joke, not when the Rev ran it.

Mickey was paralyzed, gravity and ache holding him down. His lips and face were numb. Mickey barely tasted the blood that dripped from his mouth.

Everything got darker, dimmer. Mickey thought, Dodger finally did it.  
, as all his senses faded away from him.

He smiled to sleep.

* * *

His eyes opened fast.

Mickey jolted out of his dream, and a figure was standing above him, rubbing his shoulder ever-so-caringly. His roommate. Levi Travis.

Levi said, Mick, goddamnit, I’m trying to sleep! You ok?

The lamp on the bedside table switched on. Mickey’s bedroom filled with a sodium orange glow. It was a small room, cozy.

The whites of the room, his socks and his sheets, turned to an off-white color, almost tan, and the light blue walls turned gross and green, and Levi’s skin was much tanner—more honey-glow than normal. Whatever the colors were, he could only see out of one eye.

Levi pushed his kinky black hair behind his ear. It was just long enough that he could do that. Some still fell on his cheek. His eyes got bright. He took a dramatic exhale, and tapped Mickey on the shoulder.

Levi said, Scoot over, Loud-ass.

It was a twin-size, squished against the wall and the two foot gap of space before the dresser on the other side. Mickey was impressed, the bed somehow seemed bigger when they are both in it.

Mickey pushed the extra pillow off and onto the floor, then he lay his arm across the mattress without thinking. His hand hung off.

Levi got comfortable and lay his head on the soft spot between Mickey’s shoulder and chest. Mickey winced in pain and Levi said sorry and tried again, but slower.

His hair tickled Mickey’s chin. He wrapped his arm around Mickey’s waist, all loving seatbelt style. Lastly, their legs tangled, and their hairs gently scratched at each other. Then all was silent, just their breathing.

 

Once, Levi called Mickey his perfect pillow.

He said, No matter where I lay my head on you, it feels good.

Mick liked being his perfect pillow, but they ended things more than a year before. But they were best of roommates in the odd, ex-lovers-but-I-still-think-about-you kind of way. Like the week before. They argued over who got the last can of the 12-pack in their fridge, and an hour later, they shared the damn thing and went to buy more. Together.

When they drank, Mickey felt like Levi should feel so lucky to get more out of him. If he had just enough, they might bang it out and call it a mistake and laugh about it later.

They always talked a lot sweeter with booze.

They would wake up next to each other, doused in each other’s sweat and stuff. They stopped using rubbers when they were together, and old habits die hard, so Mickey wished they would have protected themselves, even from each other, ‘cause you never know.

Mickey wished he could quit Levi. He wished he could say no to him, and mean it. He wished it weren’t true that sometimes his heart wanted Levi more than he did. Mickey wished he wasn’t still living with Levi, but what else was he supposed to do? Pay rent? No fuckin’ way.

They enjoyed each other’s company when it felt right. It’s like they bonded how brothers do, if the brothers weren’t related and had sex sometimes.

 

Levi said, Damn, I forget about your pillow magic.

Mickey said, Shut the fuck up.

They both grinned.

Levi said, What was it about this time?

Mickey’s nightmare, or as he knew it to be, a live action replay of the fight with Dickwad Dodger. Since that night, two weeks before, he’d been dreaming of the same situation, full of regret, full of failure.

The dream would start out the same, right when The Rev said his magic words. And it would end when Mickey passed out just to wake up to Levi giving him a pat on the fuckin’ shoulder. He was exhausted, and a little humiliated.

But he would never admit that.

In his dream, sometimes he tried to change the outcome and use a different move on the Dream Dodger, but it wouldn’t work. So, of course, Mickey said, It was just like last time, the dog died when the red car hit him.

For weeks, Levi thought Mickey liked dogs, but in reality, he was kind of terrified.

Levi’s head was still on Mickey, and when he talked, his jaw jumped in place on Mickey’s chest.

He said, How’s your sister?

Mickey said, Dunno.

He said, Haven’t you talked to her?

Mickey said, No.

But this, too, was another lie. Mickey was good at lying, especially to Levi. But Mickey thought all the same out of Levi, too.

Levi said, I didn’t hear you come in.

Mickey didn’t say anything for a moment, he didn’t know if Levi wanted him to. Why should he?

Mickey shifted a little and said, I gotta piss.

Levi carefully unwrapped himself from Mickey, then moved over to let him off the bed. He watched Mickey struggle to get himself up. His body ached, still, after two weeks and all Levi ever did was just watch him.

How could he be mad, embarrassed and hurt at the same time?

Mick continued, It was late, and why would I wake _your_ ass up?

Levi didn't say anything. Nothing smart, nothing fast. Mickey turned toward him, saw him breathe in as he stared at the trashed floor. He looked alone, how Mickey felt sometimes, a spitting image. He could have been staring at a fuckin' mirror.

Levi pushed that large, black curl--the one that hung in his face sometimes--behind his ear.

Levi said, You used to, no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my side of the archive! I hope you enjoyed what you read. 
> 
> Insert my signature, repetitively lame, joke here:
> 
> Cash or Card?  
> "I take Kudos and Comments!"  
> \---  
> But seriously, I'd love to hear YOUR feedback. I'm done asking my grandma.  
> \---  
> TRIVIA:
> 
> 'Levi Travis' is the name of my first Sim, played on Sims 3, from 2011--that's f*cking seven years ago, holy crap.  
> The name continued to be a gender-neutral 'fill-in' name for anything I write until I decide on the perfect name, and yes, sometimes I debated naming my first born that. Anyways, since this story idea is dated, so is the character's name choice.
> 
> So, basically this spiel is to explain why I chose not to change the name of my OC character, even though you wouldn't have known that without the explanation. 
> 
> Alright, I'm done.  
> -Ekko


End file.
